


Jingle Knells

by ThisBeautifulDrowning



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Epiphanies, Ignores everything after Season 01, M/M, Road Trips, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 04:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12204339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisBeautifulDrowning/pseuds/ThisBeautifulDrowning
Summary: A road trip to Epiphany.





	Jingle Knells

**Author's Note:**

> I found this while I was cleaning up my writing folders, and after glancing over it I decided it wasn't too terrible. 
> 
> It's set in S1 and pretty much ignores everything that happened in canon after Tobias Budge or thereabouts; I wrote this after a long train ride to my grandmother, through heavy snow. 
> 
> Don't mind the title: me and titles aren't on the best of terms.

**Jingle Knells**

 

 

 

Winter had the east coast by the throat.

 

Will stood at the gap between the red–grey curtains. Two months until Christmas, and the houses in the neighbourhood were bright with decorations and lights, soft halos breaking up the austerity of ice and snow.

 

“How are your headaches, Will?”

 

Will turned from the window. “Better. Not as frequent.”

 

Hannibal, enthroned in his desk chair, gave a slow nod behind tented fingers. “Good.”

 

They'd hit a merciful dry spell after Tobias Budge. Hannibal's wounds had healed. Will taught full classes at Quantico without Jack storming the lecture hall and bellowing until the bewildered students left. No one called and played recordings of dead people's voices.

 

“Do you have plans for Christmas?” Hannibal asked.

 

Will shook his head. “I don't celebrate it. No sense in putting up a tree if you don't have anything to put under it.”

 

“Not a monetary issue, I assume.”

 

“Who would I buy presents for? My dogs?”

 

“You could buy them for yourself.”

 

“That's kind of silly, isn't it?” Will meandered through the office, hands in his pockets. “I can do that all year 'round.” He wasn't quite successful in keeping the wistful tone out of his voice. “And it wouldn't be the same.”

 

Hannibal latched on to that. “Describe your perfect Christmas.”

 

“Romanticised clichés and all?” Hannibal chuckled. Will let his thoughts roam, trying to capture that elusive, melancholy longing that always overcame him during this time of the year. “Spending time with people you care for. Family and friends. Bonds.”

 

Hannibal gave another slow nod. “What was your last Christmas like?”

 

Will's wistful smile dissolved. “You can probably guess.”

 

“I have an inkling, but I'd like to hear it, anyway.”

 

“Someone called in a favour.”

 

“Jack?”

 

“No, someone I used to work with when I was a cop. I spent four hours in a morgue and another eight in Richmond, interviewing people who definitely didn't want to,” he made the air quotes, “bond with me on Christmas Eve.”

 

Hannibal cocked his head. “And if there had been someone at home, with presents under the tree...”

 

“I would have gone to Richmond, anyway.” Will dropped into his armchair. “Murder calls and I come running.”

 

“I'd say these days it's _Jack_ who calls and you come running.”

 

Hannibal had been circling the topic like a vulture, swooping down to rip off little bits of flesh, since the angel maker case. The first time he brought it up, he'd deflected – drawn parallels between Elliot Budish and Will: the anomalies in their heads, Budish's physical, a tumour, Will's something else.

 

Hannibal continued, “Murder, Jack – there's little difference between those two when it comes to the effect they have on you.”

 

The feeling that had startled Will when they breached the topic was rearing its head again now. “That wasn't even subtle. You _are_ trying to alienate me from Jack.”

 

“Yes,” Hannibal said. “For your own good.”

 

Will rubbed at his mouth, surprised. He'd expected Hannibal to back–pedal, to deflect again. “That's harsh. Jack's your friend.”

 

“You are also my friend. I criticize _your_ detrimental behaviour. I don't see why I shouldn't criticize Jack's. And he can be very detrimental to your health.”

 

“Jack isn't the cause of my problems.”

 

“Jack brought you back into the field. He promised to protect your head space. Yet he delegates the tending of your mind to someone else and reaps the benefits. I could even argue that he undoes the benefits.”

 

“He's not a psychiatrist.”

 

“He's the agent in charge of the FBI's behavioural analysis unit and a profiler. He's one of _the_ original profilers. Jack is more than well–equipped to judge that the dark places he sends you into are bad for you.”

 

“Jack's a good man.”

 

Hannibal made a sound posed delicately on the thin edge between derision and amusement. “Jack wants to see the world changed for the better. If that comes at the cost of your mind, that's a price he's willing to pay. You know that. Why are you defending him?”

 

“Why are you attacking him?”

 

“Because it's not Jack waking up on the roof of his house, with no recollection of how he got there.”

 

Hannibal hadn't raised his voice. His words still hit like gut punches. Will stared down at his hands, curled into fists in his lap.

 

“I don't aim to sour your relationship with Jack. I want you to examine it,” Hannibal said. “You need to realize that there is 'broken', and there is 'not functional'. I fear you are heading for the latter, fast. And no amount of therapy is going to change that if you don't learn to say no.”

 

Say no to Jack Crawford. Will almost laughed.

 

–

 

The call came in the middle of their next session. Will was expecting it; he'd been ignoring the quiet buzzing of his cellphone for the last ten minutes.

 

Hannibal picked up the phone. “Hello, Jack.” Resigned, Will held out a hand. “Yes, he's here. Would you like to – of course. One moment, please.”

 

The conversation lasted only thirty seconds. Will handed the phone back. “I'm going to have to cut this short. I'm expected up north.”

 

“Now? It's almost eight.”

 

Will levered himself out of the chair, avoiding a direct look at Hannibal's eyes. “And it's a two–hour–drive. I better get going. Jack's waiting.”

 

Hannibal clicked off the desk lamp and collected his coat from the closet.

 

“What are you doing?” Will asked warily.

 

“I'm coming with you.”

 

“Why?”

 

Hannibal put on a stern face. “You've been sleepwalking and losing time. I'm not letting you drive two hours, especially not in this weather.”

 

Will lifted an eyebrow. “I drive an hour every Friday just to get here and that doesn't bother you.”

 

Hannibal looked caught, but only for a moment. He made an appeasing gesture. “Worry tends to make me blunt. Let me come along, please. As a favour to me, if that's the only way I can persuade you.”

 

The idea of having a companion for the long drive was tempting. Having a buffer between himself and Jack was even more tempting. Their relationship had definitely cooled during and after the Angel Maker case.

 

Still, one last effort: “This could take all night.”

 

Hannibal clasped his hands behind his back. “I have a go–bag in my car. I am prepared.”

 

Will turned that last bit over in his mind while Hannibal locked up the office. He had a hard time picturing Hannibal as someone who often left the house in the middle of the night to warrant a change of clothes in their car. “What does a psychiatrist need a go–bag for?”

 

“A relic from my days as an emergency surgeon. Old habits are hard to let go of.”

 

Outside, the wind was a primordial howl straight from the icy depths of hell. Although it was less than a minute's walk to the Bentley, Will felt deep–frosted when they reached it. His Jeans burned on his thighs as he hunkered down in the cold leather seat, and his balls were trying to crawl back into his pelvis, which in combination resulted in an awkward on–the–spot shuffle to find a comfortable position.

 

Hannibal put his briefcase in the backseat and smirked at Will's antics. “Where I come from, this would be considered a nice, mild bout of frost.”

 

Will gripped the tip of his nose to warm it. “Well, you can go back there and take this nice, mild bout of frost with you.”

 

The smirk made way for something pensive. “Sometimes I wish I could.”

 

Will dug his teeth into the inside of his lip until it hurt. During one of their earliest sessions, Hannibal had recounted losing his parents at a very young age and growing up as an orphan, and Will had just told him to go back to a place that probably held little more than bad memories.

 

Will buckled his seatbelt, unsure if he should attempt an apology. The Bentley's engine purred to life. “Where are we going?” Hannibal asked.

 

“Elk's End, Pennsylvania.”

 

Hannibal programmed the navigation system. The heating kicked in quickly, and Will sighed with the return of warmth to his extremities. They drove in silence until he saw something that reminded him he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

 

“Wait, can you stop there?” Candy–coloured lights, surrounded by spray–on stars, blinked in the windows of the doughnut store. Will dug out his wallet. “Do you want anything?”

 

Hannibal looked dubious. “No, thank you.”

 

“You sure? It's a long drive, and I don't know if we'll find anything to eat where we're going.”

 

Hannibal was _enthusiastically_ sure. Will bought enough for two, anyway, and purchased a few soft drinks and bottles of water. He put the large bag in the backseat and knocked the snow from his boots before hurriedly shutting the door on their little pocket of warmth.

 

Hannibal pulled back onto the street. “This would be the perfect opportunity to pick up where we left off last week.” Will sunk lower in the seat. Hannibal laughed. “Will, you cannot deny that we're sitting here because you cannot say no to Jack.”

 

Will had pictured it, saying no to Jack. The scenarios all played out like the confrontation in the alley where they'd found the security guard, or the barn where they'd discovered Budish – like any confrontation with Jack, really.

 

Saying not to Jack wasn't the problem.

 

He picked at the seam of his Jeans. “Jack has nothing to do with it. He's my...enabler. Not what drives me.”

 

Hannibal shot him a glance. “Then we should examine your need to save lives, next. There are other ways to feel accomplished, to make yourself feel good – less destructive ways.”

 

_That_ was the problem.

 

Saving lives felt more like an excuse than a cause now, stale, a mantra he repeated because it was easier than facing the truth. His encounter with Garret Jacob Hobbs had shaken something loose, rearranged old patterns, opened pathways.

 

They led to even darker places than the ones Jack sent him into.

 

He turned to Hannibal. “Can we let it rest, please? I'm really not in the mood.”

 

“Of course.”

 

–

 

It began to snow in earnest. Snowflakes whirled in chaotic patterns in the cones of the Bentley's headlights. The road was deserted except for them.

 

Conversation was sparse and sporadic. Hannibal had to concentrate on driving as harsh gusts of wind buffeted the car. They passed a motel, an indistinct cluster of building–shaped snow mountains at the side of the road, the lights there milky and diffuse.

 

Will listened to the needle–pricks of ice against the windows. He couldn't make out the landscape at all, except for the occasional snow drift at the side of the road and icicle–laden road signs. He was no stranger to rough weather and long, cold winters, but this was almost unreal.

 

Guilt began to creep up on him. Surely Hannibal had better things to do on a Friday evening than brave the elements, especially with Christmas so close.

 

The apology slipped out. “I'm sorry.”

 

“For?”

 

“Dragging you out here.”

 

“There is nowhere else I would rather be.”

 

“With a crazy man in a car, going to the ass end of nowhere. Do you do that for all your patients?”

 

“Only the special ones.” Hannibal gave him a micro–smile. “You're not crazy, Will. You are on a journey. I will be with you each step of the way, if you let me.”

 

Hannibal had a way of effortlessly bypassing the security forts Will built out of the ruins of too many fractured relationships, personal and professional. He felt ridiculously touched by the warm sincerity, the promise in those words. “I'd like that.”

 

Hannibal's smile became fuller, more visible. “Then you have me.”

 

The air inside the car turned hot and stuffy. Feeling the flush creep up his throat and in need of a distraction, Will reached into the backseat for the shopping bag, grabbing a random box.

 

He caught Hannibal looking with cautious interest, and didn't even think. Breaking off a piece of doughnut, he held it out. “Sure you don't want some?”

 

Eyes on the road, Hannibal turned his head slightly and opened his mouth.

 

Will's heart beat in his throat. As neatly as possible, he slipped the piece of doughnut into Hannibal's mouth, feeling the flash of heat all the way down into his belly when the soft warmth of Hannibal's lips touched his fingertips.

 

Hannibal chewed. “Very sweet. Too sweet. And too much oil in the dough.” He swallowed, and Will didn't have to look to know he was making a face. “The almonds are a nice touch, but they haven't been peeled correctly. I can taste the bitter skin.”

 

Will stuffed his mouth full of doughnut before anything foolish made it out. It was _his_ skin Hannibal had just tasted.

 

“I should bake for you sometime. We could invite Abigail, too,” Hannibal mused. “It was a tradition where I come from. Not just for Christmas, but for other festivities, too. The whole family coming together in the kitchen, working together to create a feast. It is one of my fondest memories.”

 

A memory he wanted to share with Will. _The whole family coming together_.

 

Hidden in the folds of his jacket, Will rubbed his fingertips together. He pictured it, Hannibal's kitchen, flour everywhere, the oven ticking. Eggs and good butter. No recipe books – Hannibal would take lumps of dough and make masterpieces out of them, no instructions needed. Abigail smiling, happy.

 

Will's moment of intense longing for a world so close he could taste it was cut short.

 

Hannibal stepped on the brakes. “Hold on!”

 

The car slithered, gliding over the snow–covered asphalt. Will saw the massive snowdrift appear in front of them out of nowhere, _fast_ , snowflakes everywhere as the light danced and wavered.

 

They came to a halt perpendicular to the road, just inches away from the wall of white.

 

For a few seconds, the howling wind was the only sound.

 

Will's heart clenched in his chest, thudding hard and painfully. “Fuck.”

 

Next to him, Hannibal let out a little huff. “That was close. Are you all right?”

 

“This is insane.”

 

“I'm sorry. I didn't see –”

 

“No,” Will said. “ _This_ is insane.” He knocked a knuckle against the window. “We're in the middle of a storm. We almost –” He didn't want to finish that sentence. “How far till Elk's End?”

 

Hannibal consulted the navigation panel. “95 miles. And according to the map, we'd have to get off this road and drive through the country for about 40 of those miles.”

 

Will dug out his cellphone. No signal. He tossed it onto the dashboard, and bent to pick up the doughnut box that had tumbled into the foot space. “Turn around. There was a motel a few miles back. We'll wait there until the storm lets up.”

 

“Jack isn't going to like it if we keep him waiting,” Hannibal said.

 

Will ground his teeth. They'd almost crashed. It was just a snowdrift, but there could be a log under it, or a dead animal, and the car could have spun off the road, and –

 

And it was _his_ fault. Hannibal was here because of him, because he hadn't been strong enough to insist on driving by himself, because his mind was spinning out of control and he was ignoring the warnings, because he _liked_ Hannibal's protectiveness even though he shouldn't want or need it, and –

 

“Jack can just suck it up,” he ground out. “Turn around.”

 

Hannibal turned the car around. Will craned his neck, looking through the rear window. The snowdrift covered the entire breadth of the road, half as tall as the Bentley. To either side, there was nothing; just whirling white emptiness.

 

They drove back the way they'd come, much slower. The motel sign was so crusted with ice it was unreadable. The parking lot was deserted.

 

Will unbuckled his seatbelt. “I'll be right back.”

 

He got out of the car and stalked to the only lit building, snow coming up to his calves and getting under his Jeans, into the tops of his boots, melting and soaking into his socks. The elderly woman who answered his knocking, bundled up in a thick, fluffy cardigan, looked perplex to see another living soul.

 

She peered at him over the rims of her glasses. “Please tell me you weren't driving out in this mess.”

 

“We tried. Changed our minds.”

 

“Dear lord. Are you –”

 

“Insane? Yes.”

 

She laughed. “I was going to ask if you're all right, but insane covers it, too. Come in.” She ushered him into a cosy, small office. The TV was on. A fat cat was snoozing in an armchair by the window. “I'm Margaret. How can I help you?”

 

“I only need one room,” Will said. “We're just going to wait out the storm.”

 

Margaret took his money and handed him a key. “Where are you headed?”

 

“Elk's End.”

 

“Good thing you stopped. You'd never have made it.”

 

He'd gotten _that_ memo, loud and clear.

 

Will thanked her and headed back outside. Hannibal stood by the side of the Bentley, a suitcase clasped in one hand, his briefcase in the other. The cold and the snow didn't seem to bother him at all.

 

“All set?” he asked.

 

“Yeah. This way.” With a glance at Hannibal's suit pants and leather dress shoes, Will took it upon himself to plough them a path. “I got one room for us both. Hope that's all right.”

 

“Perfectly.”

 

The room matched every other motel set–up Will had seen since Jack – no, since he'd _let_ Jack drag him back into the field. Cheap furniture, faded carpet and curtains, bland wallpaper. A king–size bed against the wall, a sideboard with a pay–TV, a mini–fridge, a sofa. A tiny table with two chairs stood by the window. The closet yawned emptily next to the door to the bathroom.

 

Will headed for the heating unit, cranking it up. He opened the curtains, watching the snowflakes that flew at an almost horizontal angle now.

 

Hannibal heaved the suitcase onto the bed and opened it. “Let's get comfortable.”

 

Will inched closer, curious. “Are you sure that's a go–bag and not your entire wardrobe?” He took a second look. “...and kitchen?”

 

Hannibal chuckled. “These are just a few necessities.”

 

“A pan and pot are a necessity?”

 

Hannibal pulled out two large, folded pieces of cloth. “Yes.”

 

Will watched him spread a sheet over the couch. He lifted Hannibal's suitcase so the other sheet could go over the bed. A black leather case lying on top of a pair of pyjamas attracted his attention. It was stamped with the initials HL over the Rod of Aesculapius, the mark of medical professions in many cultures.

 

“That's a surgical kit,” Will said when Hannibal was done tucking corners.

 

“Yes. Also a relic of my erstwhile profession.”

 

“Necessity?”

 

Hannibal gave him a blank look. “A good scalpel has many uses.”

 

There was a truth there, hidden under the layers, under suits and impeccable manners, embers of an old fire under ash. It had been creeping closer for a while, seeping in, lighting the dark corners of Will's mind. It was monstrous, nameless.

 

But with a very familiar shape.

 

He'd sensed the darkness in Hannibal during their second meeting, over breakfast at the motel in Duluth – had ignored it, then, because darkness came in many forms and was sometimes benign.

 

It was harder to ignore these days.

 

Will could take a hint, especially if lately it came in the shape of six hundred pounds or so of black feathers, muscles, and antlers, and had a habit of stalking him.

 

–

 

The storm howled. Will circled the room. The dry warmth was tugging at his eyelids.

 

He tried his cellphone again. Still no reception. He'd seen a land line phone in the office, but the lights were off in that building now, Margaret probably asleep. It was almost midnight.

 

He didn't want to talk to Jack, anyway.

 

“Take a nap,” Hannibal suggested. “It looks like we'll be here a while.”

 

Will walked from wall to wall. “I'm not tired.” Hannibal didn't look up from his book, only smiled. “What about you?”

 

“I've learned to make do with very little sleep.”

 

“Another relic from your surgeon days?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Outside, snowflakes danced and rushed. Will sat on the edge of the bed, telling himself it was just for a few minutes. He watched Hannibal turning one page, two, three. So patient. A man made to weather any storm, not like Will, who felt himself either reed or bough, bending with the wind and his roots coming up from the earth.

 

A soft, amused huff near him. Will startled. His eyes had closed, he'd been drifting. Hannibal had a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, the other on Will's chest, right over his heart, and was guiding him to lie down.

 

He should have been afraid. Instead, he felt the safe.

 

“Sleep,” Hannibal said kindly. He was the storm, and Will bent.

 

–

 

A scratching noise woke him.

 

The couch was empty. Rubbing grit from his eyes, Will climbed to his feet. He knocked on the bathroom door. No answer. Hannibal's suitcase and coat were still there, so he hadn't left.

 

The relief that flooded Will pushed him into frown–faced self–analysis. He was afraid of Hannibal leaving. It was more than just the dependency on their 'conversations' and Hannibal acting as his paddle, or as his sounding board during difficult cases. Hannibal understood him, which wasn't something a lot of people could claim.

 

Will understood Hannibal. Understood the man and was beginning to understand the monster.

 

A memory floated up, Hannibal in his kitchen, after the organ harvester case – _I transferred my passion for anatomy into the culinary arts._

 

Layers and layers. Hints – so many that, in retrospect, Will wondered if he simply hadn't _wanted_ to see the truth. He sighed, feeling a thousand years old and none the wiser.

 

He pissed, washed his hands, and threw water in his face. His watch told him it was eight in the morning.

 

_Fuck._

 

He padded to the window and drew the curtains. He couldn't even see outside. Only a gap at the very top of the window was still free of snow, a few precious inches letting in pale light.

 

Cautiously, he opened the door, expecting to be buried under an avalanche.

 

Instead, he saw Margaret, hard at work with a shovel, clearing a path from the unit's little porch to the main building of the motel complex. The scrape of metal on pavement made Will's teeth hurt.

 

“Hello there!” She waved at him. “Had a good night?”

 

Will stepped onto the porch. The storm had passed. Snow as far as the eye could see, glittering under the morning sun. “Kind of. I didn't think we'd be here this long.”

 

Margaret leaned on her shovel. “I'm afraid you'll be stuck a while longer. It's going to take the road crews all morning to get here with the ploughs, never mind further up north.”

 

Will shielded his eyes against the blinding brightness. The Bentley stood where they'd left it, now crowned white. “The man who's with me, do you know where he went?”

 

She pointed at the building on the far side of the complex. “Kitchen. I offered to cook breakfast, but he insisted on doing it himself.”

 

Will had to grin. “He's weird that way.”

 

Margaret winked. “Less work for me. I approve.”

 

Leaving the door open to air out the room, Will retrieved his cellphone, not quite able to decide if he was relieved or annoyed when the screen showed he had a weak signal.

 

Jack picked up on the first ring. “Where the _hell_ are you?”

 

Will leaned against the door. Their conversation was off to a great start. “At a motel, about 90 miles away from Elk's End.”

 

“I tried calling you for hours, Will.”

 

“I had no signal. There was a storm during the night. We were stuck here. We still are.”

 

There was a moment's pause. “'We'?”

 

“Hannibal's with me.”

 

“And you're dragging Hannibal with you, why exactly?”

 

Will pinched the bridge of his nose. “He thinks I shouldn't drive. Not that far, anyway.”

 

Jack was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, “How soon can you get here?”

 

“I don't know. I left my crystal ball at home.”

 

“Will,” Jack said warningly, impatiently.

 

Will thought about tossing his phone out into the snow. He was suddenly furious. “For fuck's sake, Jack, look outside! We almost had an accident last night. I'm not going to risk Hannibal's life or mine. So unless you want to airlift us out of here, _I don't fucking know_ when we'll get there.”

 

He didn't wait for Jack's response and ended the call, then turned off his phone. Margaret was watching him with wide eyes, curious, delighted to witness drama. Will went back inside and slammed the door.

 

Hannibal returned half an hour later, balancing a large tray stacked with various bowls and containers. “Ah, you're awake. Good morning.” He paused. “What happened?”

 

Will sat at the head end of the bed, arms curled around his knees. “I called Jack.”

 

Hannibal went to the table and set down the tray. “How did it go?”

 

“I may have told him to go fuck himself.”

 

Hannibal's eyebrows twitched. “In those exact words?”

 

Will plunked his head against the wall. “He can read between the lines.”

 

“How do you feel?”

 

Will needed a minute before he could come up with an answer. “Good.” He frowned. “Should it feel good?”

 

Hannibal chuckled. “Unwinding is good for the soul.”

 

“I didn't unwind, I exploded.”

 

“Jack is a big boy. He can take it.”

 

Will worried at a cuticle. “Or he can fire me.”

 

“He needs you far too much to fire you.”

 

“After the Budish case, he told me to quit if I wanted to quit.”

 

“Do you want to?”

 

“I know I should.”

 

“But you don't. Because saving lives feels good.”

 

Will looked down at his folded hands. “It used to.”

 

“And now?”

 

Will shook his head. “It's way too early for this kind of talk, doctor.”

 

Hannibal sat on the edge of the bed, hearing what Will wasn't saying. “You know I will never repeat to anyone what we talk about. Not to Jack, not to Alana. No one. You can trust me.”

 

He sounded so honest. He sincerely wanted to help.

 

Will's heartstrings ached, those old and worn out wires. The surgical kit, the go–bag, the intrinsic awareness of darkness and danger, the goddamn nightmare stag. It all made terrible sense to his brain, but not to his heart.

 

He focused on a stain on the wallpaper. “Jack told me that if I quit, it would only take so long until hearing about all the unsolved murders would sour my classroom. Knowing I could've caught them. Knowing I could've prevented more death.”

 

“You have a different opinion.”

 

“I was a teacher for five years and I didn't go to sleep guilt–ridden about all the people I couldn't save. Saving lives is a _side effect_ , it's not...”

 

“What drives you,” Hannibal finished. “And what drives you now, Will?”

 

Will clasped his elbows. Another monstrous truth. He'd felt powerful when he killed Hobbs – had told Hannibal as much already, guiltily, aghast at himself and ashamed.

 

Now every new case brought a chance of feeling that power again. In control, not just of his life, but of another's – Will had been teaching Wednesday classes on that specific pathology for years, but it had taken pulling the trigger to _see_.

 

Imagination was nothing compared to the act itself.

 

He shook his head again. He wasn't ready. Not yet.

 

Hannibal waited a moment longer. Then he nodded, thoughtful. “Perhaps it is too early for this kind of talk.” He rose, patting Will's foot. “Come. Let's eat.”

 

–

 

Around noon, the sounds of a big machine passing by outside heralded a knock on the door. Hannibal went to open it.

 

Margaret hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Plough's just gone through. If you still want to go to Elk's End, now's the best time, before the roads close up again. The weather forecast says there'll be another storm toward the evening.”

 

They packed up. Will borrowed a hand broom to free the Bentley from snow while Hannibal returned the dishes. Margaret waved good bye as they pulled out of the parking lot.

 

They passed the spot where they'd almost crashed during the night. A truck was parked at the side of the road and two men in heavy work overalls where cutting a spindly tree to pieces. Will saw the upturned earth where the storm had uprooted it, a blemish in the snow, a dark, gaping hole.

 

“I'd like to invite you to Christmas dinner,” Hannibal said.

 

Dark holes, trees and almost–accidents flew from Will's mind.

 

“Before you say no,” Hannibal said, “consider that this isn't charity or pity. Please don't tell me you wouldn't be good company. I won't accept a no based on your unwarranted lack of self–worth.”

 

Will swallowed his automatic reply and frowned. “ _Ouch_.”

 

Hannibal's crow's feet crinkled. “That's not a no. Is it a yes?”

 

“I'm not good with parties. Or at them. Or even in the nearer vicinity of them.”

 

“No party. Just you and me, good food, good wine.”

 

Will sat with his fingertips pressed to his lips, thought about nightmare stags and the darkness in Hannibal, the thousand other little hints that led to a single, undeniable conclusion –

 

It didn't matter. He didn't care. He stared out the window, the road blurring before him.

 

It had never mattered.

 

They passed a road sign indicating the exit to Elk's End was coming up. On the horizon, the snow truck was ploughing away.

 

“It's a yes,” Will said.

 

–

 

Elk's End – the name fit, though Will doubted any elk would _want_ to end here. The town was made up of a single, long street crossing an old market square with a frozen fountain in the middle. The houses looked like they came straight out of an old western flick.

 

They had a mom and pop store, a bar, a decrepit church, and nothing else. Curtains twitched as Hannibal directed the Bentley toward the cluster of State Trooper cars parked outside the church yard.

 

Jack descended on Will as soon as he was out of the car, taking him by the arm. “We have to talk. Now.” He sent a pointed look at Hannibal. “Alone.”

 

The state troopers made way for the natural force that was Jack Crawford. Inside the church, it was cool and dark. The altar was curtained off with caution tape, drawing attention to the body draped limply over it.

 

Jack let go.

 

“No,” Will said. So easy.

 

Jack frowned dangerously. He closed his mouth.

 

Will slid into a pew. “I quit.”

 

The high ceiling carried his voice. Outside, the chatter of the state troopers stopped.

 

Jack's face was stone. “I'll take an apology instead.”

 

“You won't get one.”

 

Jack waited a moment, disbelief warring with ire. “Hand me your badge and gun.”

 

“My gun's in my locker at Quantico.” Will pulled out the slim wallet containing his FBI badge and ID card. He handed them over. The key to his locker took some fiddling to get off the ring.

 

Jack pocketed his handful. “Just like that.”

 

Will nodded. “Yes.”

 

He studied the corpse. The head was gone. There was a lot of blood, black and thick, on the steps, on the altar. He rose and walked closer, stopping at the perimeter of the caution tape. The head wasn't the only part missing.

 

Jack slowly came up behind him. “I thought I heard you say you quit.”

 

Will nodded at the bloody mess where a hairy belly met crotch. “The genitals were removed. Did you find them?”

 

Tension blistered the air. Then, with a slow sigh, Jack faced the altar. “Not yet. You're thinking trophy taker?”

 

“I'm thinking righteous rage.”

 

Jack hummed. “There was a similar murder last week, two towns over. Just like this one. Small town, decapitated priest, genitals missing. Spree?”

 

“I don't know yet. When's forensics getting here?”

 

“They were supposed to be here last night.”

 

“Got held up?”

 

“Snow storm,” Jack said, clipped. “Couldn't make it out of Baltimore.”

 

Will knew that Jack was as demanding toward his entire department as he was toward him. Will wasn't the only one he leaned on when he had to, when he needed to, because it motivated, irritated, spurned on. Will wasn't _special_ –

 

Except that he was.

 

Jack said, “So when I need you in the future, I'll find you in your classroom on campus.”

 

“In my office. _After_ class,” Will said firmly. “I'll decide on a case to case basis if I want to be involved. If I _can_ be involved. I'm not doing this to spite you. I want to help, but I will be no help to you at all from inside a padded cell.”

 

“Come on, Will, it can't be that bad.”

 

“I've been sleepwalking. I woke up on the roof of my house once. I have murderous headaches, I'm exhausted all the time, I feel myself slipping –” Will stopped before he said too much. “It really is that bad.”

 

Jack studied him, a deep crease between his eyebrows. Little by little, the frown cleared, making way for pensive, reluctant understanding. Jack _was_ a good man, but sometimes, he lost sight of everything but the case, including the price tag attached to it.

 

“I'd like to stick around until forensics get here,” Will said, “but I'll have to talk to Hannibal first. The forecast says there's another storm coming, and I don't know if he wants to sit around here until tomorrow. I don't think he slept tonight.”

 

Jack looked at him sideways. “Hannibal this, Hannibal that...is there something I should know about your _therapist_ and you?”

 

Will shrugged. Hannibal had never really been his therapist, anyway. “Nope.”

 

–

 

The state troopers gave Will curious glances when he walked out of the church. Hannibal was a solitary figure halfway down Elk End's sole street, hands clasped behind his back as though he was sightseeing and admiring the view.

 

Will joined him. “I quit.”

 

“I heard. The acoustics of that church are admirable.” Hannibal studied him. “But you didn't really quit, did you?”

 

Will stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I drew a line in the sand.”

 

“One you think Jack will respect?”

 

Will laughed. “For a while, maybe. Then he'll lean again. And I'm going to let him.”

 

Hannibal nodded. “So it was a show of teeth.”

 

“More or less.” Will kicked at a clump of snow. “I want to wait for forensics. We might have a serial killer on our hands. If you want to go back to Baltimore, I can find someone to give me a lift back home. Or I'll take the train.”

 

Hannibal waved him off. “I'm perfectly willing to stay. I only ask that we find better accommodations for the night.”

 

Elk's End didn't even have a bed and breakfast place. Will consulted his phone. “The nearest hotel is in Blighton, fifteen miles down the road. I'll call and make reservations?”

 

Hannibal pulled out his own phone. “Let me do that. I'm sure you're anxious to get back to work.”

 

“Can't do much until the terrible trio takes a look at the body.” Will sighed and dipped his nose into his scarf. “Do you really want to do this? I'm ruining your entire weekend.”

 

“My weekend would have amounted to staying in and doing nothing.”

 

“Better than standing around in the cold doing nothing.”

 

“I'm not doing nothing. I'm here to support you.”

 

–

 

They waited in vain.

 

The sky darkened drastically an hour later, thick, grey clouds swooping in. Snow pelted the Bentley. The state troopers sought sanctuary in their cars. Jack, collar turned up around his ears, knocked on Will's window.

 

“It's no good,” he said, raising his voice over the whistling wind. “Beverly just called. They're stuck again. There was an accident and now the road's closed.”

 

Hannibal leaned over into Will's space. “Are they all right?”

 

“They're fine, don't worry.” Jack heaved a sigh, his annoyance plain. “I'm posting troopers at the church. You two have something sorted out for the night?”

 

“Hotel in Blighton,” Will said. “I'll ping you the address.”

 

“Good. Let's meet back here tomorrow morning.” Jack glared at the sky. “If the world doesn't end before then.”

 

“Where are you staying?” Hannibal asked.

 

“The owner of the bar has offered me their guest room for the night.” Jack stepped back from the Bentley and knocked on its roof. “Get going. I think that storm's going to hit us a lot earlier than expected.”

 

Hannibal started the car. “Stay safe, Jack.”

 

“I will. Now go before you're stuck here, too.”

 

–

 

Blighton was larger than Elk's End. The hotel was in the middle of town, next to a supermarket. Will trailed in Hannibal's wake, looking around. Classier than Margaret's motel, but probably still not up to Hannibal's standards.

 

The receptionist handed them their keys, and they took the elevator to the fourth floor. Will was disappointed that they weren't sharing a room again.

 

Hannibal looked tired now. “I believe it's my turn to take a nap. Let's meet for dinner. Shall we say, seven o'clock?”

 

“Sure.”

 

They parted ways at their respective doors. After a cursory inspection of his room, Will stared at the ceiling above the bed for an hour.

 

When he rose, his mind was made up.

 

He knocked on Hannibal's door. When no immediate response came, he tried the knob.

 

Hannibal hadn't locked the door. The curtains were drawn. Hannibal was in bed, facing away from the door. Will kicked off his shoes and went around the bed, not bothering to hide his presence. He knew Hannibal was awake.

 

Hannibal looked at him. He'd changed into pyjamas. Will climbed onto the bed and sat, legs folded. “Forensics would have a field day in here. It's a classic. Something about hotel rooms attracts killers.”

 

Hannibal lay very still. “This isn't a crime scene.”

 

Will looked down at his folded fingers. “Not yet.”

 

Hannibal put a hand on Will's knee. “Are you awake?”

 

“Very. It wasn't me you were after. Not initially. It was Jack. I was just a coincidence.”

 

Hannibal didn't react at first. Will counted the seconds. Inevitable conclusions led to inevitable endings, and this was theirs. He was prepared for whatever shape that end took.

 

Finally, gravely, Hannibal said, “Nothing about you is a coincidence.”

 

Will sighed and rubbed at his brow. “You've been dropping hints since the day we met, but you spent this entire trip running me over with the frigging clue bus.”

 

Hannibal's thumb drew a circle on the denim of Will's Jeans. “Even saints have their limits.”

 

“You're not a saint.” Will evaluated Hannibal's responses and reactions. “You're remarkably calm.”

 

“You sound disappointed. Were you hoping for violence?”

 

“I was expecting it.”

 

“Violence appeals to you. It's the dirty, little secret you discovered when you shot Hobbs.”

 

“You had a hand in that. No one bothered to find out who made that call to Hobbs' house.”

 

“A regrettable oversight.”

 

“You were playing with me. But something changed. What was it?”

 

Solemn, Hannibal said, “You did.” His gaze slid to the side. “I did. You changed me.”

 

Will wanted to touch that almost–frown. He knew Hannibal would let him.

 

Hannibal's hand was safer territory for now; he plucked it off his knee, held it. The moorings of his world were shaking, a tremor in the aftermath of the earthquake that had taken place months ago, in the Hobbs house.

 

“Go back to sleep,” Will murmured. “It's not dinner time yet.”

 

Hannibal gazed up at him, unaccustomedly open. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

 

Will let certainty settle. He nodded.

 

–

 

A loud knock jolted Will awake. Pain shot up his back and into his neck. He'd fallen asleep and slumped sideways against the headboard. Aching muscles and joints unkindly reminded him that he was getting too old to pretzel up like that for hours.

 

Before he could get more than his basic bearings, Jack burst into the room. “Will isn't in his room, do you –”

 

Hannibal yawned delicately. “He's right here.”

 

Jack stared. “I _knew_ it. 'Nope', my ass.”

 

Will was still clutching Hannibal's hand. Hannibal sat up, not letting go of his hold, either. “I appreciate your concern, but I do believe we'll have to have a talk about knocking and _waiting_ until one is called in.”

 

Not that it seemed to bother him when _Will_ didn't wait.

 

Jack held up both hands. “Apologies. Won't happen again. Ever.”

 

He stood at the foot end of the bed, smug like only Jack Crawford could do smug. Will slumped and heaved a disgusted sigh. “What's so urgent?”

 

“We have another one.”

 

“Another murder?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Small town priest...”

 

“Decapitated, genitals removed. Twenty miles up the river. Are you thinking spree now?”

 

Will didn't want to think at all. Aching joints aside, he'd slept well and hard. He felt _at peace_. It was such a foreign concept that he wanted to bask in it, but Jack was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet with impatience.

 

Hannibal squeezed his hand. “Go get your killer.”

 

Reluctantly, Will crawled off the bed. “Will you be here when I return?”

 

“Oh my god,” Jack muttered, heading for the door. “I'll wait outside.”

 

Hannibal smiled and folded his hands over his belly. “Where else would I go?”

 

–

END


End file.
